


The First Day of Forever

by cheride



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e11 Checkmate, Gen, Suspicions, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheride/pseuds/cheride
Summary: Elizabeth is safe, Keller’s in prison, and the treasure is back where it belongs, but not everything is back to normal.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44





	The First Day of Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it’s still true that I’m supposed to be working on something different right now, but sometimes the Muse wants what the Muse wants. Besides, it never hurts to take a little break sometimes, right? That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
> 
> Thanks to [Mollygail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mollygail) for being a beta sounding board and for keeping an eye on dear Neal’s coiffure.

* * *

**_Trust takes years to build, seconds to break, and forever to repair._ ** _—Unknown_

Neal plucked one of the diamonds out of the tray and held it up to the light. The gem’s sparkle was no match for the shine in his blue eyes.

“These are beautiful,” he said reverently. “It would be so easy to—” He gulped down the rest of his thought and let the stone clatter back into the tray even before Peter’s head jerked around, eyes squinting suspiciously at his consultant.

“But I wouldn’t!” he added quickly, almost frantically. “I didn’t!” Neal held up his empty hands in demonstration.

Peter wasn’t interested in the denials and was immediately at Neal’s side, grabbing the young man by the arm and steering him past the other agents and toward the outer office.

At first, Neal tried to wrest his arm free, dragged his feet, wanted to stop the angry march, but then Peter stopped briefly, leaned close, and said in a low, dangerous tone, “Would you rather do this here?”

Glancing around the large, well-appointed office where agents were involved in gathering evidence in the final stages of their latest case, Neal could see that he and Peter were already garnering curious looks from the others. The team had definitely noticed the recent change in the relationship between the senior case agent and his criminal informant, and he knew they were watching to see what might happen next. He sighed. “Not here. But I can walk on my own. Please.”

For a moment, it looked like Peter was going to refuse on general principle, but he finally released his grip. “Keep your hands out of your pockets,” he muttered and jerked his head toward the open door.

Neal sighed again, but he strode confidently out of the office, making sure he didn’t move fast enough to give even the slightest appearance of wanting to get away.

Once out in the office suite’s reception area, Peter pointed down a short hallway and directed them into an unoccupied smaller room. He motioned Neal in first, keeping him in sight, then shut the door behind them.

“I didn’t take any of the diamonds, Peter,” Neal said as soon as the door was closed.

“Like you didn’t take the treasure?” Peter snapped.

Neal clenched his jaw and resisted the impulse to tell the man yet again that he, in fact, _hadn’t_ taken the damn treasure. It was a distinction without a difference as far as Peter was concerned.

In the week since Elizabeth’s kidnapping, their relationship had hit an all-time low. In the immediate aftermath, there had been a moment of fellowship when Peter realized that Neal was willing to confess his crimes to ensure Keller would go to prison forever, thereby keeping Elizabeth safe, but the moment had been short-lived. The idea of a possible commutation—that the CI might actually _benefit_ from his deception—seemed to bother the agent almost as much as Neal’s own actions, and Peter’s understandable anger and disappointment didn’t seem to be mellowing with age. 

These days, Peter disbelieved literally every word that came from his consultant’s mouth, questioned everything he did. But for his part, Neal had never been more honest with his handler. His attack of guilt, along with his willingness to do anything necessary to fix things between them, had led to a wholly unnatural inclination to tell Peter the truth about everything, including, unfortunately, his near-slip about how easy it would be to make off with a few of the loose gems that were currently in the other room.

But Peter either hadn’t noticed the new streak of honesty or simply didn’t care. He had turned his anger and distrust into pettiness, giving Neal the cold shoulder, filling the CI’s in-office hours with bank fraud files, and restricting him to house arrest during his off-hours. And, just to keep things interesting, Peter had dropped by the apartment a few times and tossed the place, reminding Neal that his probationary status gave the FBI the right to search his property and person at any time for any reason—or no reason at all.

The first time Peter had rousted him, Neal had lost a passport and a perfectly good alias, but he was grateful his handler hadn’t opted to write up the violation and toss his ass right back in prison—though he wasn’t entirely sure why Peter had granted the dispensation. Neal had called Mozzie to come over the next day and sterilize the apartment completely so there’d be nothing incriminating to find if Peter came by again, and that had been a good call because the agent was much more thorough the next time. And the time after that.

This was only the second crime scene Neal had been allowed at since the Keller debacle; at the first one, Peter had frisked him both before entering and after leaving, even though there’d been nothing there as easily pocketable as loose diamonds. Neal had no doubt that he wouldn’t have been allowed within a mile of this place if they hadn’t had to send him in undercover to finalize the bust, and he’d never seen the tracker reappear so quickly after a takedown. He also had no doubt he was about to be frisked again, probably with a Peter Burke lecture on the side.

Even so, Neal had borne all the indignities with as much grace as he could muster, understanding—and regretting—his part in leading them to this point. So, he stood now in the middle of the room, away from furniture and hiding places, hands loosely at his sides, and waited.

Peter stared for a long minute, hands on his hips, eyes dark and troubled, searching every inch of Neal’s face, seeming braced for any indication of deception. Neal continued to wait, forced himself not to squirm under the scrutiny. He had nothing to hide today, but that didn’t keep the hair from rising on the back of his neck or quash the very real desire to simply run far away.

“Are you physically incapable,” Peter finally said, “of keeping your hands off of things that don’t belong to you?”

Neal swallowed the dryness in his throat and kept his response short. “No.”

“So, it’s a choice then?”

“I didn’t take any of the diamonds,” Neal repeated.

“I hope that’s true.” Truthfully, Peter didn’t sound like he cared much one way or the other. “Give me your jacket, Neal, and then your gloves.”

Neal didn’t hesitate. He removed his suit jacket and took the three steps necessary to hand it over. Then he stripped off the latex gloves and gave them to Peter as well.

Peter pointed to a clear patch of wall, no window, no art, no outlets, vents, or even peeling wallpaper—in short, nothing the nimble fingers of a thief could use to stash any sort of contraband. “You know the drill,” he said, his eyes daring Neal to argue.

But Neal didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he only pressed his lips together tightly and crossed the room to the designated spot. Facing the wall, he leaned his hands against it slightly above his head, fingers splayed, concealing nothing. He didn’t wait to be told to slip out of his shoes and spread his feet. He stood silently, listening to Peter thoroughly examine the jacket, wanting to caution him not to wrinkle it but knowing this wasn’t the time.

When the agent was satisfied, Neal heard the whip of fabric as Peter apparently tossed the jacket through the air. He turned his head to watch it hit the chair in front of the small wooden desk, then slide off onto the floor. “Peter . . .”

“Face the wall, Neal.”

Neal huffed a short, exasperated breath, but he turned back to stare at the wall. Then he felt Peter’s hands begin their slow, methodical search, and Neal could swear he could feel the anger radiating through the man’s fingertips. The search started with his head, running fingers through his hair, inside his ears, down his neck, flipping his shirt collar up and back down. Then, every inch of his arms, paying close attention to his shirt cuffs and seams, pulling his hands away from the wall briefly, checking palms and between fingers.

Peter moved on to his torso, first patting him down, then sliding hands smoothly all over his chest and back, up and down his sides, alert for the smallest lump that might be a misappropriated precious gem. Finally, though, Neal thought maybe the hands were losing some of their irritation.

By the time Peter crouched down to better reach his legs and look at his shoes, the search felt much more rote, as if once started, Peter knew he had to finish even though he’d lost his interest in the process. Neal wondered if there was hope in that.

He felt Peter stand again, but Neal stayed silent, waiting.

“You can turn around now.”

Straightening to pull away from the wall, Neal promptly raised his hands to his head, making a face as he felt the muss of hair Peter had left behind. He pulled his fingers through his dark waves to put the hair back in its proper place, then turned around slowly. Peter hadn’t backed away much, and Neal let their gazes lock for a moment. Was that relief he could see in those brown eyes?

It was Peter who moved and broke the connection. “So . . . you didn’t take any of the diamonds.” Definitely relief. Slight, and trying to stay hidden, but it was there.

“No.”

“But it would’ve been easy.”

“Yes.”

“Even if you’d known I’d search?”

Neal did hesitate then, just for a split-second. He didn’t want to invite a strip search or anything, and he wasn’t sure he could count on Peter not to go that far, not right now. But he couldn’t lie. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Might’ve needed another thirty seconds or so.”

“Gonna say I told you so?”

“No.” Neal looked down and let his eyes trace the pattern on his tie. “I’ll say I’m sorry, though. Again.” He looked back up at Peter. “I’ll say it every day for the rest of my life if that’s what you need.”

“That’s not what I need.”

Neal waited, hoping Peter would say what he _did_ need, wanting to know what he could do to make things right, but there was nothing else offered. So, he drew in a breath and waggled a hand at himself, indicating his relative state of undress, at least by Neal Caffrey standards. “Can I—?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Neal slipped on his shoes, bent down to tie them quickly, and then hurried to retrieve his fallen jacket. Looking pained, he gave the garment a quick shake, then brushed gentle hands along the fabric, smoothing imaginary wrinkles and dusting off a few specks of real carpet fuzz. When he was satisfied, he slipped his arms into the jacket and tugged on it carefully until it was hanging properly.

With his armor of clothing finally back in place, Neal looked back at Peter, intending to ask about next steps, only to find his handler watching him, humor crinkling the edges of his eyes and a small grin lighting his face. It was the look Neal always thought of as accidental, like Peter didn’t _want_ to be amused but couldn’t help himself. It might’ve only been a few days, but Neal had missed that expression, and he felt his own grin forming in response. “What?”

Shaking his head, Peter said, “You didn’t look at those _diamonds_ with that much hankering.”

Neal chuckled. “‘ _Hankering,’_ Peter? Really? And, anyway, there’s always more diamonds; this is a _Devore._ ”

“At least I know where your priorities lie.”

Personally, Neal thought every problem they’d ever had was probably because Peter actually _didn’t_ understand his priorities at all, but he doubted this was the time to have _that_ debate. Besides, he much preferred teasing to arguing, so he let his grin spread to the full-on Caffrey wattage and twitched his shoulders in a slight shrug. “You know me, the suits go with the glossy smiles and the annoying little hats.”

Peter snorted at the words he’d thrown out in make-believe anger during a recent sting. “Smartass.” But then he dragged a hand over his head as his expression sobered, and he seemed to debate his next words. It only took a couple of seconds before he reached his decision.

“I think you should go, Neal.”

The animation drained from Neal’s face as he felt Peter pulling back again, like he’d suddenly remembered why he’d been mad. He should’ve realized the guy wouldn’t be willing to move on just like that. “But—”

“You get bored during the mop-up, anyway,” Peter interrupted. He wasn’t unkind, though the familiar bantering tone was gone.

That much was true, Neal had to admit, though it rarely got him so summarily dismissed. But it was a better excuse than being told he couldn’t be trusted around the evidence again, so he would make the best of it. “I’ll see you back at the office, then?”

“No, you should just go on home. Get your weekend started early.”

“It’s not even noon yet,” Neal objected. “And what about my report?”

“Oh, you’re looking forward to paperwork now?”

“No, but—”

“You can email it to me.”

Neal grimaced. An extra six hours stuck in the apartment, and he still couldn’t escape the paperwork. Not the best way to start the weekend. He opened his mouth to argue, but one look at Peter stopped him cold.

Peter looked almost like a drab caricature of his usual self. His jacket was pushed aside as one hand rested on a hip, the other raised to his forehead, fingers absently trying to rub away scowl lines, his mouth was drawn tightly downward showing none of its usual good humor, and his shoulders were hunched as if he were bearing the weight of the world on them. He looked as miserable as Neal felt.

“I’m sorry, I’ll go,” Neal said. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday,” Peter agreed tonelessly.

Despite his intentions to just let things be for the moment, Neal stopped with his hand on the door, though he didn’t turn back to look at the other man. He let his quiet words carry all the pain he was feeling. “I really am sorry, Peter.”

Peter spoke in a matching tone. “I know you are.”

Neal turned around then, let his eyes meet Peter’s. “Would it be easier if you reassigned me to someone else, or. . . or. . . something?” As bad as he felt about everything that had happened, he couldn’t quite bring himself to actually _volunteer_ to go back to prison, though if that’s what it would take to make Peter and Elizabeth feel safe and whole again, he’d do it. “I’m sure Elizabeth would prefer it that way.”

“That’s not an option,” Peter told him flatly, though Neal wasn’t sure if that meant it was something Peter would never consider or if it literally wasn’t something he’d be allowed to do. He hoped fervently it was the former.

But then Peter’s features softened just a little. “And El would never forgive me, even if it were.”

“Oh.” Neal wasn’t sure what else to say to something so completely unexpected.

“She’s more forgiving than I am,” Peter added.

Neal nodded. “I get that.” He let a beat pass, then said, “I don’t know what to do, Peter, but I want us to be okay.”

“I want that, too.”

“But we’re not okay, are we? Even though it’s what we both want?”

Peter shook his head. “No. We’re not.”

Neal didn’t flinch from the harsh truth, didn’t let his gaze waver, and thought maybe he’d finally get some direction on what he should do beyond stay out of the way, but after a couple of minutes, it was clear there was still nothing else forthcoming.

Biting back a sigh and swallowing the hurt he knew he didn’t have a right to feel, Neal pulled open the office door, but a single, softly spoken word stopped him again before he made his exit. He twisted to look back over his shoulder, not daring to hope. “What was that?”

Peter straightened his shoulders, standing tall and steady as his sincere brown eyes met the hopeful blue pair across the room.

“I said, ‘yet.’ We’re not okay _yet._ ”

Neal felt his breath catch and knew he couldn’t trust himself to say much, but he nodded and forced out the most important thought. “ _Yet._ I can work with that.” 

Peter’s eyes narrowed even as the corner of his mouth twitched up into the barest beginning of another accidental smile. “Figures you’d see it that way.”

“I meant ‘ _live_ with that,’” Neal corrected immediately, though he was fighting back his own smile, “I can _live_ with that.”

“I’ll see you Monday, Neal.”

“Monday,” Neal agreed, waving farewell, no longer bothered by the extra six hours of house arrest.

As he stepped out into the bright sunshine, his step was livelier than it had been in quite a while, and his mind was already racing. Maybe he should start with flowers for Elizabeth; she’d like them, and Peter wouldn’t be able to complain too much. On the other hand, Frankie Whispers owed him a favor, and the Yankees would probably be in town sometime soon; Peter would enjoy a game. The possibilities were almost limitless now that he knew there was a light somewhere at the end of the tunnel. Who knew such a simple word could mean so much?

_Yet._

He could definitely work with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I should've thought about writing a Valentine's fic for today, but with these guys, I figure a little low-key angsty friendship trouble is how they roll anyway. Thanks for reading, even when it's not chocolate and roses!


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